The Point Man
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Arthur out of control isn't a pretty sight, either. Premovie.


Disclaimer: I do not own _Inception_, its concepts, or its characters.

So. I haven't really written anything for months. But last night I saw Inception, and it was amazing, and when I woke up this morning this knocking around in my head.

_The Point Man_

Arthur has very small, very hot hands. The size is unsurprising, for he is indeed a small man (though someday, with slicked hair and tight vests, he will make himself _lithe_ and _fluid_, rather than petite). But the heat, this Cobb did not expect. Though merely a function of metabolism and blood flow, it seems to give him character, to put the suggestion of passion and pain beneath the icy surface. He files this away for further use. And as he grasps one of those hands in a firm, professional shake, he knows instinctively that he could trust them to save his life.

"I have a job offer for you, sir," Cobb says quietly.

* * *

Arthur, as it turns out, is not a half-bad architect, though the peculiarities in his worlds are a bit too blatant for their purposes. Cities tend to wear their underbellies like jewelry, but when there is beauty, there is majesty and splendor and genuine love. Homeless projections linger outside of quaint little bookstores that, when entered, turn out to smell like vanilla and house four cats. Cobb watches Arthur briskly explore the shelves, adding further and further detail, and smirks to himself. The kid looks as though he's been a law degree waiting to happen since the age of four (which, Cobb knows, is pretty close to the truth), but inside, in his head, he can't hide his disgust or his compassion.

But Cobb doesn't need an architect, he needs a right hand man, somebody with a cool head who always knows the score. And Arthur, he knows, will turn out to be one hell of a Point Man.

* * *

(Years from now, Mal will die, the lab will collapse, and suddenly they will find themselves in a somewhat less respectable line of work. And Arthur will take it all in stride.)

* * *

Arthur's projections are unusually violent, though he learns to control them with uncommon efficiency. Cobb is glad for this, because of all the ways that he has died (has woken up), being held down and injected with drops of scalding poison for half an hour before he finally goes is a new experience, and one he never cares to repeat. And when he opens his eyes, Arthur, who had been desperately sobbing for the better part of the dream, merely turns to face him and asks how to prevent that from happening again.

It never happens again.

* * *

It never happens again, but Cobb is still dreaming on his own (sometimes), and occasionally, he is held down by a man with a needle and familiar dark eyes. He pieces it together one day, finally, and is surprised that it took him so long.

"Was he older or younger?" he asks Arthur, out of context but knowing that this question can only mean one thing to his young partner.

"My twin," Arthur says; he doesn't hesitate, but won't discuss it further.

* * *

Their first real job together goes smoothly; Arthur's background check is thorough and helpful, and he thinks well on his feet. His mind does not influence the dream unless he deliberately wills it to do so, which Cobb especially appreciates. It goes as smoothly as their first drink together, as their first inside joke, as the first time Arthur has dinner at his house, with him and Mal.

Along with everything else, they are becoming friends.

* * *

They are becoming friends, but neither of them will say it, because both of them know the dangers of giving a shit about other people. But Cobb- there was a time, long ago, that he wasn't like this, and so he can't help it, caring about the kid.

"How did he die?" he asks softly, but Arthur shakes his head, and as Cobb lies awake that night he wonders if the reluctance to tell is because Arthur actually doesn't consider him a friend, or because he does.

* * *

They're in a dream again, one of Arthur's. Arthur is practicing creating his weapons, the single aspect of their line of work that he never automatically excelled at. (But to be fair, when this all began, no one expected that weapons would be a part of it.)

Arthur's guard is down; projections wander menacingly around the outskirts of the scene, and Cobb is uneasy from the memories of the last time Arthur was not in control. What's happened in the past few months to him; what was so bad about the time he spent on his own?

"He's not dead," Arthur says quietly. "Jonathan. He's not dead."

Cobb looks over his shoulder, where Arthur's gaze is directed, and sees familiar dark eyes in an angry face.

"What happened to him?"

* * *

"He's a junkie," Arthur says; suddenly they are standing in what looks like a nightmare New York City. It's raining, and bitterly cold, and Cobb can't remember the last time that Arthur had lost control of a dream so completely that they'd made a jump like this. Raggedy projections populate the streets, making much more sense now, and Cobb thinks back to the needle of poison that Jonathan had killed him with, that Jonathan was in the process of killing himself with somewhere right now.

"I'm sorry," Cobb says, but before Arthur can reply music swells around them, and the kick comes like a hurricane.

* * *

It's been a long time since any of this was fun for Dominic Cobb, but he remembers, distantly, that when they'd started out, they'd been in it for the adventure. They'd been in it for adventure, and architects, they were in it for the no-strings-attached power of sheer creation.

But Arthur, Arthur with his cold smile and hot hands, he just wanted to add one more thing to his list of what was under control: his hair, his moods, and now dreams themselves. Pretty much everything but the one thing that mattered most.

* * *

When word comes almost two years later that Jonathan has been found dead, Cobb pats Arthur once on the back, his own hands clumsy and cold, and leaves before he can find out whether or not the boy will cry.


End file.
